


in which sollux captor has a bad dream

by sinisterhand



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors (Homestuck), Gen, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon, Short One Shot, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinisterhand/pseuds/sinisterhand
Summary: The next time he comes you are ready.“You’re not dead,” you accuse, and the ghost looks mildly surprised, eyeblanks narrowing. He does an exaggerated look up and down himself, fading to yellow mist at the edges, shirt stained all over the same sickening, visceral color. You don’t waver; you’re pretty much used to his shit by now.Or: Sollux meets Psi for the first time.
Relationships: Sollux Captor & The Psiioniic | The Helmsman
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	in which sollux captor has a bad dream

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know about the rating or the warning; I don't _think_ that anything's really that bad but I guess err on the side of caution? Sollux meets a ghost, and they talk about death. That's the it.
> 
> Not betaed, so if I made any mistakes, please please tell me so I can fix them.

The next time he comes you are ready. 

“You’re not dead,” you accuse, and the ghost looks mildly surprised, eyeblanks narrowing. He does an exaggerated look up and down himself, fading to yellow mist at the edges, shirt stained all over the same sickening, visceral color. You don’t waver; you’re pretty much used to his shit by now. “Imperial files are pretty hard to crack, but not that hard. Mituna Captor, mustard, born a slave, high-grade psionic, on record as conscripted to the Condesce’s personal fleet for the last…” You drum your claws on the desk, wringing a tiny piece of nasty satisfaction out of the way his jaw sets. “Let’s see… two thousand sweeps?” His image frays at the borders with rage. 

“ _Liar._ It’s insulting that you would even try that.” The ghost shakes his head slightly, as if trying to physically dispel your words, or perhaps free his head from some confinement. You notice that he doesn’t lisp on _insulting_.

“Okay, okay!” You slump in your swivel chair, playing deflated, posture loose, because you’re kind of an asshole. And then you meet his eyes, because so is he. “It’s only been about a thousand three hundred. But man, wouldn’t it be neat if it _had_ been? Us Gem-sign Captors kind of had a whole duality _motif_ going on, I can’t deny that would be _satisfying_ …” You trail off, smug, and watch his eyes flicker black-white-red-blue quick as beeswing. The spaces between his horns distort with heat-shimmer. The bags and bloodcrust under his eyes are worse than you have ever seen them before. And your ancestor-ghost pretty much always rolls up looking like a mess, which only makes this _so much_ better. While he’s reeling, you ask, matter-of-factly, “So how and why are you bothering me?” 

The look on his face is incredibly satisfying. God _damn_ do you love proving the voices in your head wrong. The talkative delusionghosts always loitering, sometimes disprovable. When your mind is incessently pestered by voices— when it is _often_ hard to tell whether inconveniences of the sort are your brain fucking with you or your grim future (fucking with you)—you gotta take the little victories. Like hitting one particularly repetitive daymare with the _shocking revelation_ that he’s full of shit. And getting your sticky little claws into Imperial business was a nice bonus; it always is.

“Alright, wiggler, so you’ve done your research,” he begrudges you. “So you know I was— _am_ the waterbitch’s Helmsman—”

“Shit, you’re still here? I thought once you disproved a delusion, it was supposed to go away.” He stares at you blankly. 

“I’m not a delusion, you stupid little groundworm,” he spits, and then adds just a little sheepishly, “though I of all people understand how you might come to that conclusion. Even though that tattered sack of yellow ooze still has a working bloodpusher, no-one survives even two _hundred_ sweeps of Helming. My selfghost— the me-splinter talking to you right now—was destroyed long before you were a gleam in the Mothergrub’s eye. So. Not dead, perhaps, in the ways that count to a scrawny, pedantic keyboard jockey, but dead enough.” His lips, split with yellow at the corners, sneer. “Does that answer your question?”

“Aw, dammit,” you say, and put your head in your hands. “KK was right. Hallucinations don’t have to listen to logic, even mine. Fuck, I’m going to have to troll him, and he is going to be so pissed I woke him up again—”

“Will you just listen, bees-for-brains!” the Helmsman explodes. “I am not a product of your fucked up pan—many though they may be—I am _your ancestor_ , and the most powerful psionic to ever live, and I am trying to give you some ancestral fucking advice so that when that husk strapped to the Condesce’s ship finally gives out I can dissolve with no unfinished business (at this point you feel like he’s just _flaunting_ every sibilant), and if you would listen for even one—”

“ _Troll Jesus_. Okay! Fine! I don’t even care if you’re a hallucination or not at this point, or if I have to troll KK, just say whatever was so important and leave me the fuck alone!”

“I will,” he snaps back. Suddenly, somehow, though he has no pupils or irises, you can tell his gaze has gone glassy like a prophet. “Don’t take shit lying down, especially not from casteist fucks. Fight for what you believe in. And when you are defeated—because that is how revolution ends— tear your own throat out before they discover your power. I envy my friends who were granted a death of only a few painful days. If you think Helmsmanship looms even vaguely within your future—and I trust that you my blood will see it coming—don’t give them another tool. Death first. No second thought.”

You are silent. You look at your ancestor, and, misshapen teeth chewing a thousand and one questions, only manage a quick nod. Then, between the blink of one eye and the next, he is gone. You rub your eyes, no longer quite sure what you were so worked up about a minute ago, and open your hubtop to bother Karkat.


End file.
